Written in Cold Blood
by MrTails
Summary: After Sherlock dies, John spirals out of sanity. Dark themes. !Summary Edited!
1. Chapter 1

Written in Cold Blood

Hitman!John Watson

Contains WatsonxMoran man sex.

Notes: Based on a tumblr post. Not good with tumblr. D: I can't find it again and even if I could, have no idea how to respond to it. It was just too adorable to ignore, though. Le sigh.

John Watson wasn't bored.

_Bang!_

In fact, he would dare to call it even fun. With Sherlock gone, he had to make his own fun. The first few months without his best friend John had gone through the seven stages and came out for the worse. For a while, he was numb, then he stopped being able to pay the bills, then, of all things, he got bored. Perhaps living with Sherlock for so long had left him with the need for excitement. When he was with Sherlock, he was constantly wishing things would be calm just for a little bit, but it wasn't until he was gone did he realize that wasn't what he wanted at all. Then one faithful day, he shot a man dead. Life really was so fragile. John couldn't even remember why. Maybe it had been one too many 'sorry for your lost', or one too many 'Moriarty was real', or more likely, one too many 'Sherlock Holmes is a lie'.

Whatever it was, John responded by shooting him in the face, twice. He remembered two distinctly, though. The first shut him up. He remembered the feeling of pulling the trigger in a display of untamed, fiery fury and watching the man fall silent forever. John could still remember that part perfectly, the tearing of skin and the splatter of blood. He hadn't screamed, but the sound of his SIG echoing through the empty all had been immensity sweet. He instinctively pulled the trigger again. The second made his face unrecognizable.

_Bang! _

Mycroft spat at him. Mycroft fucking Holmes dared to argue with him. He fucking dared to call it on him. John would admit, he had said some things that were too cruel for the old John. It ended in a physical fight, though in the end, John wondered if Mycroft sat back and took it because he knew he deserved it. In the end, it was probably the very fact that Mycroft had dared to say anything to him at all that made John turn around and forget his guilt of taking a life. Mycroft certainly wasn't showing any guilt. People died. That's what they did, after all.

Then he met Sebastian Moran. John had no idea who he was or why he wanted anything to do with him, but he had money and bills needed to be paid. Moran offered him the chance to kill for money which turned out to be much more rewarding than just killing. John wasn't going to leave his flat. It was the last thing that reminded him of Sherlock. His papers still sat around, his things scattered all over the place. Sometimes John would still find himself scolding Sherlock for not cleaning his things and he realized that doing so might have been the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely.

_Bang!_

In the end, it turned out to be _fun_. John could recall a lot of time with Sherlock, they played in the back of his head like morbid reminders of the fact he wasn't here. People died, that's what they did. He could thank Moriarty for that. People did die. Sherlock died, despite the fact that certain people didn't consider him a person. If Sherlock, brilliant, amazing, wonderful Sherlock deserved to die than no one else deserved to live, either. Sebastian helped him realize that.

"He's running your way, Moran. I have the safe." John wiped the blood spatter from the face with the back of his leather covered hand. Sebastian chose all the targets and John didn't question it. He didn't care anymore. He simply couldn't bring himself to. Some of these people were bad people, he knew. Some of them were innocent. His conscience should have been telling him that this was wrong, that he should be feeling guilty, but like the rest of John, it was numb and quiet. At first, he had questioned himself about their families and friends and the gaping hole he was leaving in their lives. Sherlock hadn't thought about that. He hadn't thought about how many people he would have affected. He hadn't thought about John's feelings at all. Stupid, stupid, cruel Sherlock.

"Got him. Get out fast." His partner responded. John blew the safe wide open with a single blow. He was getting good at things like this. Moran was a fantastic teacher if he did say so himself. Quiet and a little brash, but they found common ground with their military training. It was a pitiful excuse for a safe, though, hardly a safe at all. He shoved the contents into his bag, making sure that there wasn't anything suspicious along with the goods and that he had the photos Moran had specified, then zipped it up, and turned to examine the ruins he left. Two dead men, one woman, and lots of blood. The blood was his favorite part. Sherlock probably wouldn't have agreed, but John saw beauty in it. The pools of red and the splattered spots on the wall like morbid little paint patterns.

The room was small and the rest of the building had since long been emptied, making them far easier to shot dead. They were all easy to shoot dead, though. Life was such a feeble thing. John wasn't too fond of the noises they made, though. Unlike Sebastian who was rather fond of making them scream, John preferred a swift death and the nearly arousing silence that followed. Sherlock hadn't made a noise. No one else should, either.

With his leather gloves, he dipped a finger into the hole he left in one of the older looking gentlemen. They were Sherlock's gloves, slightly too large for his hands and cold, but he loved them none the less. They weren't his favorite. Not the same pair he had always wore, of course. Sherlock had died with those, but they were his gloves none the less. He rubbed a bit of the thick red fluid between his fingers, basking in the mild stickiness that it left behind. Then, with two fingers, he wrote on the wooden table.

Sherlock Holmes would be disappointed.

To be perfectly honest, John wasn't sure if Sherlock would be disgusted with his new found hobby. Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock really was on the edge of being a serial killer. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only reason Sherlock didn't kill people to amuse himself when he was bored. If only Sherlock was still here to prevent John from doing the same. There was one thing he could be sure of, though. Sherlock would be disappointed in the fact that he was making it so obvious. He was using his same SIG P226 that he always had. He didn't try to make it look like an accident. He didn't hide it. It was so easy. Sherlock would have refused the case because it was so boring, but John was still free. He wondered if he would still be free if Sherlock was alive. Would the man cover up for him? Or would he turn him in? Or perhaps, he'd even helped him.

Lestrade hadn't spoken a word to him since Sherlock had gone. John was sure he was afraid and he should be. This was his fault. This was all of their faults. Out of everything Sherlock did for them, the least they could do was believe him over some two bit criminal. They did exactly what Moriarty wanted. They were the reason Sherlock jumped. Why he thought he had no other choice but to jump and John, John would make sure they knew how bad they had fucked up.

Mycroft knew, of course. The might bloody government knew everything. Every so often, he would get a call demanding he stop, demanding that Sherlock wouldn't have wanted this, and that action would be taken against him if it continued. They usually ended the same way. 'Then do it. You killed your brother so easily, then you can kill me, too. It's the only way I'll stop'. One day Mycroft would stop him, and John would welcome it with open arms. He wasn't afraid of dying now. He wasn't afraid of anything now. He knew the taste of his own gun from the many times he'd contemplated taking his own life.

There wasn't anything stopping him. If Mycroft didn't get him first, then it was only a matter of time before John pulled the trigger himself. Every so often, he would be overcome with the desire to end it. He wasn't sure why he didn't. He'd be much happier. He might even see Sherlock again. He supposed he just wasn't ready to go. That he had yet to wreck havoc on those that caused Sherlock to jump. He wanted to see them fall before he did.

This was fun, despite his crumbling mental state, or rather because of his crumbling mental state. He could see why Sherlock didn't like to be bored. He could also see why he loved adrenalin so much. It was so sweet on the tip of his tongue. He walked the street with ease. They were so stupid. He could see that now. No one gave him another glance, no one questioned his innocence, and they never would. John had something a lot of criminals lacked. He was calm, collective, and uncaring. He wasn't killing people out of spite, or rage, not anymore. That was what got them caught, after all. Whether you were a good guy or a bad guy, caring simply got in the way.

He returned to Moran's flat. He wasn't sure what the man had done before this, he didn't seem to be someone that would buy a flat like this, but John didn't ask. He simply stood in the quiet little elevator and took it all the way to the top floor. The mirrored sides gave him a view of himself from all angles. There were a few smudges of blood on his face, on the corner of his mouth and his jaw, but not enough to have been seen in the dark. His hair was mused, a quick shake set it right, and his black coat, just light enough to keep him warm, didn't show blood. He could feel the wet spot on his collar, though, and upon touching it, left a streak of blood over his neck. Sebastian wouldn't mind.

The man was already waiting for him in the oversized flat. He didn't have any other workers; he didn't have any friends, or family. John wasn't even sure anyone else lived in the entire building. It was only Sebastian in the mundane cream and leather colored room. Simplistic, this seemed like Moran, but in a feminine sort of way that wasn't like the sniper at all. Someone had lived here with him before; there were traces of him or her all over the place.

John dropped the bag on the glass table top and left the rest to Sebastian. Money wasn't important. As long as he had enough to pay the rent and feed himself, Moran could have the rest. However, even Moran didn't know what to do with it. It made John suspicious, but he continued his long streak of 'whatever'. The only thing he could really be arse to care about lately were the hits. As far as he knew, most of the people they killed were called in from a mysterious phone Moran didn't use for anything else. Occasionally it would ring while John was about and he would have short negotiations. Sometimes he'd hear a simple little 'we don't do that anymore'. Or too many 'wrong number' for it to be the truth.

John plucked a pair of beers from the fridge, noting it was just as empty as the fridge in his own flat. Not completely, but what was in there wasn't edible. While John's fridge consisted of a few things that Sherlock had left when he died, Sebastian's consisted of two wine bottles always pressed at the back at the fridge, one with a white tie tied around the neck, and a white to-go box from a high class restaurant and a neatly folded napkin from the same sitting on top of it. Always the same box, Sebastian never touched it, and when John couldn't bear to think about Sherlock anymore, he idly wondered if Sebastian was in the same boat as himself. It seemed more and more likely. They were so alike in so many ways. It was probably why John opted to spend his time doing this rather than mourning. It was only natural he wanted to find someone that understood what he was going through. While they never spoke about themselves, neither man had much to say, it was so painfully obvious. They were nothing more than a pair of wounded men. Well, wounded pets.

"Dinner?" The shorter blonde man suggested, setting one of the bottles on the table beside the things he was sorting. It was mostly cash, a few documents neither of them knew what to do with, and the photos Sebastian had told him to be sure to grab. Sebastian had tons of blackmail, though it simply sat in the floor safe with no real use.

"Yeah." They were a pair of very simple men. To be honest, under normal circumstances, this didn't seem to be something either of them would normally be doing. John was doing this because of Sherlock. He didn't know why Sebastian was doing this, but it wasn't for himself. He knew it wasn't for himself, because every so often, Sebastian would respond to someone that wasn't there. He'd put out his cigarette and murmur a small comment under his breath. Twice John had entered the flat to find him having a conversation in the empty living room. Either he was simply crazy or he was right in thinking they were the same.

"Rent." Sebastian handed him a stack of bills and John counted through to make sure it was a proper amount. Mrs. Hudson knew he'd been fired from the clinic (after punching a patient in the nose) but she had no idea what he was doing now. She quietly asked about him every so often, though she refused to enter the flat anymore, and John gave her the smallest of answers. She was a kind woman, but John couldn't stand her anymore. It was best that she kept to herself. He paid her the exact amount and nothing more and kept quiet. He never gave her any reason to come up to the flat, he never got packages or guest, and he told her to keep everyone out of the flat. No police, no family, no Mycroft, and she did. Mrs. Hudson probably had some kind of idea that he'd finally lost his mind and she was doing the smart thing and keeping out of his way.

"What do you do with the rest of this?"

"Save it."

"For what?" John questioned. It made the man stop for a moment to think. He didn't know, then. Old habits die hard. John knew that too well.

"Hoard it." He corrected. John snorted.

"What do you want to eat?"

"Don't care." There were only two places Sebastian wouldn't go, making five between them. Of course, with Sebastian's smoker's tongue and John's lack of appetite, it rarely mattered where they went. He was feeling good today, though. The feeling came and went, but it wasn't surprising that it followed a successful hit. Often times, he felt incredible after a kill. It was almost as good as being on a case with Sherlock, not the same, but almost as good. In the end, John decided that he simply loved the thrill. He could blame Sherlock for that, too. He decided on a familiar restaurant from the drawer in the kitchen and ordered in more booze and food.

John took to reading the paper and Sebastian flipped through the telly. Eventually, the older man couldn't stand it any longer and dug his box of cigarettes out from the side table. He placed a cigarette between his cracked lips and with a few flicks of his thumb, lit it. John didn't mind the smoke and in the large living room, it was hardly noticeable even when the man was sitting just across the couch from him. Some people would dare to call the sight domestic, perhaps even label them as a couple, but John knew better. They were a pair of pets waiting for someone to return that never would.

_"The 'Sherlock Holmes would be disappointed' killers have struck again." _A quick peek assured him that it was the kill from last week. Not surprising, really. Sebastian was very good at hiding bodies. To be honest, he was sure Sebastian could hide bodies where they'd never be found if he really wanted to. He watched the screen, knowing well that Lestrade would be close behind. He was right. Flustered looking and obviously upset. John didn't blame him. He was useless without Sherlock. Sherlock should have known that. He should have known that if he had just waited, they would have realized that he wasn't a fake. Sometimes John wondered if there was another reason he jumped. Not for the first time, John wished he knew what the man had been thinking.

_"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had this to say; 'These do not seem to be serial murders," _Fantastic. He managed out that much all on his own, too! _"These are very specific hits. These murders hold no evidence that they were connected to Sherlock Holmes in any way. These people have never even met Mr. Holmes. The only connection between them is that they were robbed after their deaths. If anyone, anyone at all, knows anything about these, please contact the department." _

John had no doubt that Lestrade was suspicious of him, if his awkward attempt to get him to confess was any sign. That would never happen. John wasn't admitting to anything and even more so, he wasn't admitting anything to DI Lestrade. He didn't deserve to catch him. He didn't deserve to be DI. He didn't deserve to live, but John would let him. Maybe because Mycroft wouldn't stand for that, but more likely because John wanted to make the man suffer all on his own. Lestrade felt guilty and he would have to wallow in that guilt for the rest of his life. Sebastian grunted.

"Never been on telly before. Guess we're finally getting out of hand."

"Now would be the time to play a game." John scoffed bitterly, going back to his paper.

"I fucking hate games." Sebastian responded sharply.

"Good. Then we won't get caught." They weren't 'brilliant' and they didn't want recognition. John didn't know what he wanted and Sebastian didn't seem to want anything. No, that wasn't right. John was doing this because it was fun. If Sherlock had taught him anything, it was that caring truly was a weakness. Sebastian was doing this because he knew nothing else.

"I'm not going to get caught." The older man insisted. "I'd shoot myself before I spent a moment in cuffs."

"Take them all with you, Moran." John murmured in response. "You only need one bullet to kill yourself."

"Like you wouldn't do the same."

"I wouldn't. If I'm going to get caught, I have a lot of things to say to a lot of people." If he got arrested, he knew Mycroft would be along right away to take the situation into his own hands. It wouldn't get that far. Lestrade had no evidence on him and by the time he did, Mycroft will have grown the balls to actually 'take action' again him. Preferably in the form of a gun. If he was going to go down, he would be sure everyone knew what he was thinking. He wasn't going to go peacefully like Sherlock. He was going to verbally break everyone who had never doubted his best friend and would bask in their saccharine guilt with every single one of his last breaths.

"Another beer?"

"Mm." If there was anything about Sebastian he liked, it was his calmness. John missed Sherlock and his loud experiments and his inability to sit still, but he wasn't looking for someone to replace Sherlock. Sitting in silence was the next best thing. Sebastian even managed to make him feel better when he didn't even realize it. Not that John would say that out loud. Sometimes the only thing he needed was to know that he wasn't alone. In the short time they'd known each other, Sebastian had not one mentioned Sherlock, or even suggested the man in any kind of way. John was sick and tired of hearing about Sherlock and what other people thought about him. Other people didn't know him.

When the beer ran out and their meal was through, they shared a bit of whiskey. Sebastian had quiet the collection of liquors and would take any excuse to drink them. John didn't mind. Between the two of them, they managed to prevent one another from drinking themselves to death. Alcohol was a good thing, though, and more often than not, it ended in some much needed sex. Tonight was one of those nights. A few more drinks and Sebastian was unhappy with the distance between them. Sebastian rarely instigated it, but he was always a little friskier after he got to pull the trigger. John hadn't seen the mess he made, and Sebastian always made a mess, but he had to assume it was a good one. Their glasses were forgotten, crashing against the cold wooden floor and shattering across the ground without a care.

It was simple. John wanted to get off and Sebastian seemed to be under some sort of Pavlovian effect. There was no love and the attraction was purely physical. Sebastian was tall enough, despite being so broad, for his mind to allow him to allow him to think of Sherlock. Of course, as soon as it did, he was reminded that he was angry with Sherlock. Enraged in fact. Lips met, though it never was gentle anways. Sebastian didn't do gentle. It was clumsy, as it usually was, as the taller male dominated and John viciously fought back, bashing teeth and tongue and eventually blood. Whose it was was anyone's guess.

Sebastian tore at his shirt, yanking it over his head with ease. Rough hand palmed over his scar and gripped at his shoulder blade with enough force to dislocate it. Which had happened once and made the man no more careful than before. John ripped open his shirt, tearing the buttons free easily and exposing the far more scarred chest. Some of them were war scars, some of them weren't. He found the indentation of his collar and followed the cut along his chest with his tongue.

Hands fisted his blonde hair as he undid the metal bits to his jeans. John fished the firm flesh out, pulling the waistband of his pants down to expose the erection. Sebastian didn't make a sound, but his breath came in heavy pants and his abs flexed with every intake. The smaller male wrapped his mouth around the engorged head, drawing his tongue along the vein. The sniper tightened his hold, thrusting into the wet cavern of John's mouth with no reserve. John gripped his side, fingers digging into the small of the man's back, but he held no reluctance as his throat was repeatedly invaded.

Sebastian groaned mildly and John flinched mildly as he felt the thick seed flood his mouth. He pulled away, dribbling the excess into his palm. He could tell the army man was watching him with predator like eyes.

"On your knees." Sebastian tugged off his jeans and his pants without delay and positioned himself over the coffee table. A few specks of the broken glass dug into his knees, but he didn't seem to care. John plunged a wet finger roughly into the already previously abused hole. He undid his jeans with his free hand and quickly located a condom in the drawer of the side table. He rolled it on, slicked himself up, and impatiently took the heavier set man.

John's fingers dug into his abs and the pale dip between his shoulder and neck, giving the smaller man plenty of control. Sebastian drove his scarred hips back to meet the already violent thrust. It wasn't the first time he would sport a pair of bruises on his hips. Sebastian's breath fogged against the glass top, and John groaned a throaty noise. The heat that encased him was incredible.

"Jmm," Sebastian clenched around him, frothing against the edge of the table desperately. John drew his nails down the man's back, instigating Moran's orgasm as well as his own. Quick and rough was all that was required. John wasn't sure he'd be able to enjoy sex any other way, now. Silence passed between them, the room filing with the sound of both men catching their breath. John moved away, knocking the broken glass off his legs. He was too drunk to feel the little pieces digging into his jeans and causing little speckles of blood to leak through. He cleaned himself off while Sebastian did the same, and redressed.

"Noon." The sniper reminded him as he began to leave. John nodded his understanding. He took a cab back home. He never asked to stay the night and Sebastian never offered. It was a mutual understanding. After all, it was only sex. John felt nothing for the other man and the feelings were returned. It was more than that, though. The only place John could sleep was in the flat and sometimes, not even there. Occasionally, he would just have to wait until he simply lost consciousness.

Sherlock did this to him. Sherlock made his life like this. Sometimes John wished he would have never met the man. That he had moved away to some cheaper more secluded area where he could waste his life away doing anything and never knowing any better. Of course, he didn't really want that. The thought was just a way to spite Sherlock, or rather himself considering the circumstances.

It wasn't too hard to hail a cab being barely past midnight. He quietly sat in the back, the passing lights momentarily lighting up the backseat every so often. The cabbie glanced back at him every so often and John was quickly becoming irritated again.

"You're Watson, eh?" He finally asked.

"No. Wrong person." John answered in a bit of a slur.

"Course ya are. Sherlock Holmes' buddy." The stupid man continued. He could walk from here.

"Stop the cab." He demanded and the cab stopped. John approached the front seat, motioning the man to open the door. He did and perhaps he was expecting a fight. John had met a lot of people that attempted to fight with him using Sherlock. It never ended well.

"Thank you. Very much, in fact." A single shot blew through the underside of his jaw and decorated the ceiling with the remaining bits of his skull. John's favorite tool; the silencer. He tucked his gun away, pulled the vehicle into neutral. He slammed the door shut and with a trotted off towards home. John really hated people talking about Sherlock.

As usual, his flat was quiet and empty. After a few moments, however, John could hear the sound of a violin purring from Sherlock's room. It was only in his mind, though. The blonde man sighed to himself, doing his best to ignore it. It was a little bit difficult, considering it was louder than usual. John knew his mind was playing tricks on him, it did often, but it wasn't any less hurtful. He made himself a bit of tea to sober himself up a little, went through his mail and a few messages from Mycroft before dragging himself off to bed.

John was asleep after a few moments of staring into the dark.

He could still hear the violins.


	2. Chapter 2

Written in Cold Blood

Notes: I just watched 'Wild Target' in which John(Freeman) plays as Hitman. –swoon- I WANT ONE. Someone get me a Martin Freeman. RIGHT NOW. So plenty of inspiration. Also; I'm planning this for about four or five chapters, but I pretty much make everything up as I go along, so bare with me. I rewrote this chapter a couple times. Also-also; TUMBLR! HOW DOES IT WORK? D:

Warnings; Violence, mental instability, language

John didn't sleep well that night. There weren't a lot of nights that he did. It was easy enough to get himself up and go about his daily routine. He bathed himself in hot water and scrubbed until his skin was pink. It wasn't to get the blood off of him, though. He listened to that damn violin play in his mind all bloody night. He couldn't get the feeling off of him, now. Sherlock was dead. He had to keep telling himself. He was not in the flat, he was not playing his violin, and he was not alive. Fuck, but Sherlock was all over him. He was all over the place, constantly causing him pain, making him think more of what he didn't need to think.

If Sherlock did have only one friend and John was bloody jealous of whoever that was because he certainly wasn't him. Sherlock hadn't been thinking of him when he jumped. Of course not. Why on earth would he? John was just a little man with a funny little brain that would drop everything to keep him safe. If only he'd walked a little faster. If only he'd been a little smarter, maybe John could have saved him. If only he'd understood.

Why couldn't he understand? Why couldn't he understand? John bashed his forehead against the tiled wall of the heated shower until blood ran down the length and turned pink in the water. Deep breaths, Watson. He slouched against the wall, calming himself under the stream of steadily cooling water until he regained his composure. He felt minutely better. Like a good cry, only with blood. Enough of that. He had a job today. A personal job, Moran said, which always meant a good bit of torture first. No, John didn't like the screaming, but it was exactly what he needed to drown out the violins right now.

He turned off the water, touching his jaw and deciding that he could spare the time to shave. He wiped the fog off the mirror and quietly went about his work. With long stroke of the blade, he watched himself in the mirror. The broken mirror, to be specific, after a rather bad mental crumple. Blood trickled from the wound on his wound on his forehead, reminding him that tiles were incredibly hard. The wound would match the marks on his knuckles. He was getting hurt a lot lately, all by his own hand. John didn't think that was fair, really. It wasn't his fault. Sherlock wasn't here to take his anger. It always came down to Sherlock.

John rinsed off his face, ruffled his hair with a single hand and slunk back to his room to dress. There was that damn violin again. He debated breaking it before, if only to stop the sound from playing in his head. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't know why. John had always loved to listen to Sherlock play. It wasn't about the noise, it was about the feeling. There were very few times that he knew what Sherlock was feeling, the man had been so hard to read, but if there was just one time, it was when he was playing. Now he hated it. It was sad. Always so sad. Always so bloody sad. Sherlock wasn't sad, though. No, Sherlock was laughing at him.

"Did you really think we were ever friends? You're just a PA. Live in PA." Perched atop his dresser, Sherlock giggled at him. John dressed. He pulled on his pants and a pair of clean jeans, and patted out the wrinkles. Sherlock leaned against the doorway, watching him with his ever as pale eyes.

"You should wear a turtleneck. Awfully cold out today." Then he rolled his back against the blood stained frame and faded down the stairs, the steps nothing but echoes in the back of John's throbbing head. He tugged a high collar shirt over his head, protecting his neck from the cold, and ruffled his hair once more to dry it out. Then he followed his illusion down the stairs. Sherlock watched him from the couch as he searched through the kitchen for something to stomach. He didn't find anything. A drink of rum settled his stomach.

"And yet you moaned at me every time I skipped one measly meal." John pulled on his shoes with the help of the table, and tugged the end of his pants down again. He unrolled his equipment, making sure it was relatively clean and sharp, though it was rarely used. Sherlock's again. God knows what he had used them for, but it hardly mattered.

"That's not the appropriate use for those, John." He rolled it back up and tucked it away in his pack along with his gun and plenty of ammunition. There was no harm in being prepared. By now, of course, he could walk into any building of his choosing, piss off everyone, and walk away alive. Sebastian was one hell of a shot. John had really loved that job. There was nothing better than watching people drop like flies. Perhaps even one day Moran would turn around and shoot him. John had thought about that, too. He had no idea why the man had approached him, why he offered him the money he did, or how he knew him, but that was okay. The best part of still being alive was never knowing when he was going to die.

"Please, John, don't go." John threw the strap to his bag over his shoulder and drew his palm over his forehead and through his hair with a heavy sigh. He paused at the door, watching Sherlock with a pitiful expression. He wanted to. He really did want to stop. But he wanted everything to stop. He would drag the world to his knees to get Sherlock back, but he knew there was nothing he could do to get him back. Sherlock gave him a look that the real Sherlock never would have; desperation.

"You're better than this."

If only you were real.

John left the little flat and flinched at the midday sun. Indeed, it was cold. He tugged up the collar of his turtleneck and began down the street. He passed up the crash he'd caused the day before. Lucky him, the front of the car was too mangled to get the cabbie out. Blood ran along the street and the metal post where it was finally halted the vehicle finally by splitting it nearly in two. He walked past the police of who didn't give him even the slightest acknowledgement. Like a wolf among the sheep, gnawing the wool over his eyes. The faint echo of the violin teased the back of his mind, but it dulled being away from the flat.

"Morn'." He greeted the taller male. Sebastian looked away from his paper ever so slightly and offered him a small nod. John joined him at the little table positioned outside the little café. It was much too cold to be outside, but it didn't seem to have any effect on the sniper. He simply sat with his face in the newspaper, though John wondered if the man knew how to read properly, and ignored the rest of the world. He was dressed slightly better off than usual, meaning John wasn't the only one that was having a breakdown. Sebastian must have had an argument with his flat again.

"Straight forward floor plan. Top floor, fifty two. Roof escape, four elevators, key code doors on the stairs. You clear out the rooms. I'll handle the CEO."

"How many?"

"About six." John needed no more instruction than that. Not particularly troublesome, not that it ever was. After Sherlock died, crimes sky rocketed, but so did arrest. Those that got away, were caught by others as the entire town struggled to take the place as king. Then it went quiet. While the larger domes crashed, smaller rings stayed down and survived. It wasn't until recently did he discover that Sebastian was the one doing the trimming.

Sherlock would be disappointed. Just because he didn't care didn't mean he couldn't think. Likely hood that Sebastian Moran was one of Moriarty's mean; very high. Likely hood that the man Sebastian kept talking to _was _Jim Moriarty; Entirely possible. Chances that this was so elaborate plot from the dead Moriarty; none. That was one thing John could be positive about. Moriarty was just as dead as Sherlock was and if he wasn't, John would make him wish he was.

In the middle of the day, it was a sign. Sebastian was warning everyone to go back to where they were or else. The man had no idea what he was doing, but it was working. John couldn't say they were the good guys, still. They weren't stopping criminals; they were doing nothing more than keeping them in line. One of them even made an attempt on Sebastian's life. That man didn't exist anymore. In the night, it was a job. No rhyme or reason. People paid and they killed. That definitely wasn't 'good'. It was a good thing John wasn't trying to convince himself this was for the greater good.

Sebastian folded up his paper, leaving it on the little decretive table and began down the street. John followed him. The building was made nearly completely of windows, but the glare made it impossible to see inside. It was perfect. The woman at the desk panicked the moment she saw Sebastian and dove for the phone in a frenzy. John was quicker than her, and in a single swift movement, shot her dead between the eyes. She hit her keyboard with a 'thud' and blood pooled between the keys. Sebastian struggled with one of the elevators before simply deciding to break the buttons with the butt of his gun. John made easy work of the other two.

The last took them to the top.

_You don't really want to do this. _John jerked his head about to look at the wall behind him. He rubbed his ear as if to shake the sound. His guilt was numbed and now he was trying to convince himself that he still had it. Guilt was the last thing on his mind. Not even Sherlock could convince him otherwise. He did want to do this. Sherlock was wrong about him. They were all wrong about him. He wanted this. He wanted the thrill, the chase, the dangerous, and most of all, the pleasure. He got all that in the military and with Sherlock. Now that he had neither, it wasn't any wonder he went to such lengths to feel the rush again. Sherlock was just an excuse. John wondered if he would have turned this route if he hadn't joined the military. How long would he have lasted as a normal doctor? How long would he have lasted as a normal person?

The doors alerted them with the smallest of noises and Sebastian broke the buttons with a swift jam of his gun. He hoped Sherlock was watching him from wherever he was. John was going to show him exactly how much he wanted this. Sebastian began down the straight path of the hall and the little army doctor took the sides.

"Can I help you?"

God did he want this. John smiled. He didn't want this for Sherlock, or Lestrade, or Mycroft. He wanted this because it was fun. Is that why people do anything? It was why Sherlock too cases. It was why Moriarty intruded on his life. If it wasn't fun, there was no point in doing it. No longer would he waste his life away doing stuff he hated. Now was when he started living.

So John smiled. The fear that washed over the man's face was satisfying. Two silence shots and nothing but blissful silence. He released a content sigh. Not only was it fun, it was relaxing. The noise of the floor had gone quiet, now. They knew something was going on, but it didn't matter. They were trapped. He continued to the next office, nudging the door open with his foot and staring down the less an innocent man.

"I don't want to hurt you." His hand shook and John smirked.

"J-just leave." The man demanded. This wasn't the first time John had a stand down. They always ended up the same. He shot him dead. As it turned out, not all people that pointed guns were so inclined to use them. John didn't see the point in owning a gun at all if you weren't going to use it. Then there were four. A woman, this time. It was increasingly obvious that this was not the business it appeared to be. He brushed her out of the chair and glanced around the desk a little. Cocaine, business cards, not what he was looking for.

"Samantha?"

Ah. John fluttered the stack of money. More than enough. Perhaps he'd treat himself to something nice for once. Maybe a new gun or a nice suit. Maybe make himself look a little more 'professional'. A single shot dropped the curious man dead. Then there were two. Sebastian was great, but this wasn't going anywhere. He could shoot Sebastian any time he wanted to; catch him off guard, just like the man could do the same. It was a game of wills and wants.

A cry sounded from down the hall and John swiftly left the desk and stood in the door. The remaining workers hurried out like sheep to the slaughter. Then there were none. Quiet, efficient. What more could someone ask for in a hitman? A quick check assured him no one else was on the floor.

"Finished." John stood in the doorway, watching Sebastian shoved a little white business card in the man's mouth. He wasn't dead, not yet. Ever so slowly bleeding to death, but not dead. Despite Sebastian being clunky and rather rough around the edges, he was very good with delicate little cuts and scalpels.

"Good. Help me out 'ere." The sniper motioned to the window and John hurried across the room to help him pull the lining out. A quick bump knocked the pane free and sent it crashing down to the sidewalk. John grabbed him by the anklets and Sebastian grabbed him by the shoulders and with ease, tossed him out the open floor. John watched him hit the ground and the people gather around him like ants to feast on the drama.

"Lucky man to go out like that." He commented with a chuckle. The same way Sherlock did, face down on the cement. Gorgeous.

"He spit on my suit three years ago." Sebastian grunted.

"You use to wear a suit?" John teased. "I can't even fathom."

"Very funny. Job requirement."

"I hope you're not going to tell me you use to be an escort."

"You do know how light you are, right?" Sebastian grumbled. John offered a small laugh. He backed away from the window and the man followed him. The sirens alerted them to the oncoming police and casually, they headed onto the roof. Without a word, they went separate ways. John hopped a couple buildings before slipping down onto the pavement. No one saw him, the building was too high, and no one stopped him. He returned to his flat, returned to the violins and the draft home, and made himself a bit of tea. He called it a good day, overall. He was in a better mood, certainly. He was almost feeling good for once.

It was about time he accepted it. John would have never thought about it before. Of course, he'd never had to shut down his conscience before. He wouldn't have called it possible before. In fact, he was almost completely sure he should admit himself to mental hospital right now, but he wouldn't. He wasn't crazy, after all. He was just sick and tired and bored. A cup of tea and the paper used to be able to solve that. Maybe sociopathic tendencies were contagious.

_Knock. _

John glanced toward the door. He set down his tea and picked up his bag.

"John? The police are here!" Mrs. Hudson called.

"One moment! I'm indecent!" He took his bag, the evidence, and hurried it into Sherlock's room.

"John?" Sherlock murmured. "What are you doing?" John opened up the safe and tossed the bag inside where it would be safe. Now was no time to diverge into his fantasies. Well, fantasy would suggest that he wanted them. He didn't want Sherlock haunting him like this.

"When did you learn to open my safe? When did you find my safe?" The blonde man ignored him completely, exiting the room again. He came face to face with Lestrade and John closed the bedroom door firmly behind him.

"John," He said in a tense voice.

"Can I help you?" John closed the bedroom door behind him. He could see Lestrade searching the house with his eyes. The more he looked, the more worried his expression got.

"Oh," He breathed. "John,"

"What do you want, Lestrade?" The little army doctor demanded a little firmer. The DI swallowed.

"We have video of you, John."

"Video of what?" Damn cabbie. He really needed to control his anger. That would be much easier if people would stop pissing him the fuck off.

"The accident yesterday. The cabbie was shot."

"And?"

"We have video of you, John." Lestrade was nearly begging now. John did his best not to snarl in pure animal instinct. The day had gone so well so far, too.

"Video of me doing what?"

"John, please. Just stop."

"Video of me doing what, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Of you getting in and out of the cab." He said firmly. John was smarter than that. They weren't going to catch him in the act of doing anything incriminating. When Sherlock was alive, it was a useful skill. Now it was demanded.

"So why are you here?"

"We need to check your flat." Lestrade sighed, offering the most sympathetic of looks. John's skin crawled. How easy it would be to stop him right here. A kitchen knife, some unknown chemicals, a little slip up.

"Mycroft?" Of course it was Mycroft. It wasn't even a question. Mycroft wasn't stupid, either. He knew he wouldn't find anything. Lestrade meekly nodded.

"Go on, then. I hope you're proud of yourself." John watched a few other workers climb into his flat and he returned to where his tea sat waiting for him.

"This is ridiculous, I hope you know." He spat. "You're pathetic, Gregory Lestrade. You can never do things for yourself, can you? You simply dance. You were useless without Sherlock, you're useless now. Your whole bloody team is useless. Look at you all. Searching my flat because Mycroft told you to when you could be out there pushing people off buildings."

"You seem to be doing a fine job of that, yourself." Sherlock whispered in his ear.

"You did exactly what Moriarty wanted you to, and now you're doing exactly what Mycroft wants, but I guess you always did that. Have you ever stop to think, _Lestrade_, maybe I should think this through on my own first. Maybe things are not what they seem. Maybe I should take a single fucking step back and look at the situation that has been put in front of me."

"John, stop it," Lestrade instructed. "You need help."

"I need you the fuck out of my flat."

"Look at this place! It's like Sherlock's still living here!"

"Well it's better than pretending his never existed!" John practically shouted. Oh, just one. He just needed one good, clean shot. Lestrade's silence gave him the perfect chance.

"To think he actually respected you."

Lestrade parted his lips to response, but the answer died before it had even formed. There was no answer to that. Instead, he turned away and pretended to watch his people work. John was disappointed. He would have hoped Mycroft would have the decency to show his face next time.

"That was a secret, John." Sherlock insisted. John couldn't help the smile that folded over his lips and spilled into a manic sort of laughter. They wouldn't look at him. They were afraid to look at him. He had no reservations, anymore.

"There's a safe in here." One of them murmured. John had purposely left it uncovered to taunt them. To taunt Lestrade. Otherwise none of these fools would have the least idea.

"Open the safe, John." Lestrade asked. It was set up like an order, but he was begging. His eyes turned up to the ceiling, off to the side, and graced the ground, but he didn't meet the beige eyes of his suspect. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he had, John would have given way. Perhaps he would have broken, crumbled away and gave in; confessed. There was no way of knowing.

"Warrant."

"Just open it."

"I'll tell you what. If you go up on the roof, right now, and fling yourself at the ground, I'll open it. Who knows? Maybe you're more air worthy than Sherlock was." John laughed at him, watching him flinch and squirm uncomfortably. It was getting louder. He couldn't stop himself. Tears pricked his eyes, then they were flowing. His face was wet and his throat was hoarse. He was laughing and crying and now they were all staring at him.

Then it abruptly stopped.

"Get out."

"John. Look at me. You _need_ help."

"Get out of my flat, or so help me, Lestrade, I will shove that safe so far up your ass, you'll spit up pence." John warned firmly. He could get in a lot of trouble for threatening an inspector, but they both knew he wasn't. He was threatening someone had thought to be a friend. It was obvious in the way Lestrade turned his had away, that he knew it.

"You're done with your stupid little search. Run along and go play police men. I have a friend to meet." The entire room took a breath and Lestrade bravely stood his ground.

"Does this friend have a name?"

"For fuck's sake. Sherlock, Lestrade. I'm going to see Sherlock Homes' grave, like I always do on days like this." The man admitted. Lestrade's will broke and he nodded weakly.

"Good." Good because he wasn't a criminal? Or good because it would remind him Sherlock was dead. John debated testing the theory by launching his mug at the man, but thought better of it.

"We're done here." He announced. "I'll be back with a warrant, John."

"Don't waste your time." The blonde man snapped back and Lestrade grimaced with understanding. John was just going to move it by the time he got back. There was no point in it. His gun was on record and sure enough, they could match all the shell casing they wanted to it, but if they couldn't find it, it couldn't be helped. In fact, if John remembered correctly, it'd been stolen. It wasn't his fault some bad, bad man was using it to shoot people. His SIG was his favorite. Most the time, he kept it with Sebastian, since his flat never got search. Of course, he never wandered around unarmed, either, but the pistol he carried now was completely legal. Not to mention he'd only shot it but once. They wouldn't even find blood on that stupid thing.

"John," Lestrade said again. John was getting sick of hearing his own name from the man's mouth. As if it would stop him, as if it would remind him who he was. John knew who he was. It was Lestrade who was confused.

"Hm?"

"If you ever need to talk-"

"I have a number to a great therapist." John finished with a bitter smile. Lestrade frowned, but nodded. He, and the rest of his little workers, left and John watched them from the window. They would be back. If he knew Lestrade at all, the man wouldn't stop until he thought John was better.

"A little harsh there, weren't you?" Sherlock commented off handedly, tilting back on his heels a little. "He's just trying to help." A small weight brushed over his shoulder and the bad kind of shiver went up John's spine. It was getting worse. He touched the spot and swiftly turned away from the window, brushing past the illusion of his mind without a care. He instantly began to put things back into place and it disgusted him, but he couldn't stop. They moved everything. Why did they have to move everything?

"Are you really going to visit my grave? Kind of pointless since I'm right here." The taller male insisted blandly. John's heart ached. God, his mind was deteriorating. He rubbed his temple, soothing his migraine with three firm fingers. He retrieved his bag from the safe again and was out of the flat as quickly as he could manage. He didn't even jaywalk the entire way to Sebastian's. He wasn't giving them any reason to arrest him and search his person.

"You look like shite." Moran grimaced at the sight of him.

"Love you, too, hun." John snapped back sarcastically. "My flat was just searched, thank you."

"Are you panicking?"

"What? No. God no. Fuckers wouldn't know evidence if it stared them in the face. I'm stressed. Purely stress." He sucked in a deep breath, calming his mind. Being away from the flat made it much better. He should just move out, but he couldn't. As much as being away was a relief, he had to go back and he would continue to go back like a bad relationship.

"Get naked. And I'm using your shower." John instructed and Sebastian followed.

o-o-o-o

Mycroft stepped into his flat after a long day, dipped his umbrella into the holder and loosened his tie. It had been a long, long day. A good sleep was exactly what he needed right now. Food first, then sleep. He turned on the lights and Sherlock appeared from out of the dark. Is brother sat on one of the bar chairs, feet up against the side with his knees to his chest. He was eating his cake. Mycroft couldn't be mad about the cake though. Sherlock was _alive_. Well, Mycroft had always had some kind of idea that he was. He wouldn't have put his word on it, but he had always hoped. Everyone would hope their little brother was still alive, but only the Holmes could actually do such a thing.

"Sherlock," It was almost impossible not to sound a little bit relieved. Sherlock frowned through and turned pale eyes away as if he'd done something naughty. Mycroft was tempted to check his flat. The younger Holmes looked back again, though.

"I broke John, Mycroft."

"Yeah. I know."

It was going to be a long, sleepless night.


	3. Chapter 3

Written In Cold Blood

Sherlock had never meant for this to happen. John was so strong, had always been so strong, and some part of Sherlock was flattered that he was the only person who could break the little army doctor. The rest of him was ashamed that he had. John just wandered around the flat in stupor most the time. Sherlock had been back for nearly two months now. When he first arrived back, it was clear John was having trouble realizing what was happening. He ignored him as though he'd been here the whole time and when Sherlock tried to verbally tell John he had returned, his doctor went into a state of frenzy, mangling himself in what was an obvious attempt to stop what Sherlock could only guess was himself. He didn't know what to do and so he did the only thing he could do and fled the flat.

Sherlock didn't remain away for long, returning the next day and cautiously preventing himself from agitating the man. He spoke softly with his flatmate, but John's responses were erratic. Sometimes he would look at him or murmur small, one word answers when asked a question. Sometimes he would look at nothing and answer questions Sherlock didn't ask. Twice in the same week he had awoken to John having a conversation with no one; one was an argument it seemed and the other was a repeat of a conversation they'd had before. Sherlock tried to insert himself into these conversations as they appeared and steer it into another direction, but John would ignore his attempts and even follow the ghost figure instead as if he couldn't see the real one.

He'd broken John, clearly. The only thing the man didn't seem to mind was Sherlock moving things around. John wouldn't move anything and after the Yard had rustled through the house, the man had obviously struggled to _not_move everything back to where he thought it belonged. If Sherlock physically moved things, however, John wouldn't panic. Sherlock hoped dearly that this mean some part of John realized he was actually here and alive. He just needed the smallest part to know that John was still in there and still capable of being saved.

After Lestrade and his dogs left, John hurried out of the flat impossibly fast. Sherlock was impressed that John had managed to locate and open his safe. He wasn't surprised at all, though. John was very intelligent and with his new cold complex, it was leveling out his emotions in favor of logic. That wasn't his John, though. His John was warm and caring, not some cold-blooded killer. He supposed a person could be capable of both, but those were bad thoughts. Against his better judgement, he went out to seek help from his brother.

It was worse than he thought. Mycroft informed him of everything John had done. The file alone was far larger than it should be and with Mycroft's insight added on, Sherlock was regretting leaving him to his own devices even more. John was working with Sebastian Moran, for fuck's sake. What was Sherlock supposed to do with that? Fortunately, Mycroft was on their side this time. John couldn't be blamed for this entirely, though the older Holmes did insist punishment was required. Sherlock ignored him.

John returned to the flat the next morning and Sherlock quietly greeted him.

"Late night, I see."

"Mm," John responded indifferently. He stripped from his shirt and Sherlock watched him examine the bruises on his hips. From Sebastian, clearly, and by the scent, John had been smoking. It was hard for Sherlock not to be annoyed. It was bad enough that Moran had made John's situation worse, encouraging him to kill. The sex was just rubbing it in and now he was getting John to _smoke_. Sherlock wanted to complain that he'd struggled through quitting the last three years without John's help, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn't bring himself to get upset with his broken doctor.

John didn't know what he was doing. He didn't grasp the concept of how terrible the things he was doing actually were and therefore, he couldn't be blamed. Sherlock wouldn't blame himself, even if he would admit he was a tiny bit responsible, but it wasn't his fault either. Moran had to be subdued anyways, so the fault naturally fell on him.

John went about making tea and for a while everything was calm. Some days were good days. Sometimes John would act like his old self and have some tea, read the paper, or even watch the telly. Every so often he'd have great days and even blog, though Sherlock knew now that oftentimes the laptop wasn't even on and even if it was, the post never made it to his blog. These times weren't to be mistaken with one of his episodes, either, when John would repeat a day before Sherlock had gone. Nor could it be mistaken with when he looped. He'd just do the same thing over and over until he finally panicked and either left the flat or tried to maim himself.

Sherlock knew he had to carry on things carefully. He had to slowly integrate himself back into his flatmate's life and John out of his crime spree. It was more difficult than he thought it would be. Apparently, the Sherlock John was hallucinating was very cruel and that was putting him several steps back at a time. Was that how John saw him normally? It was a little upsetting. As far as progress went, there was little he could do for now. Every step had to be precise and pointed.

"I'm sorry, John," The lithe detective murmured softly as John enjoyed his tea. John seemed to grasp his presence this time. The blonde closed his eyes in surrender, pressed his tongue against his teeth and sighed. Most of all; his John wasn't pitiful.

"No, Sherlock," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I just- I just couldn't save you."

"I didn't need saving," Sherlock scoffed back, unable to help his bit of annoyance. John cracked a smile, though.

"I know. I know." He didn't, obviously. Sherlock knew the human mind was fragile, but how could John really not realize he was here? Perhaps it was more than stress. Maybe John had, had an accident he didn't know about and hit his head. He might have just slipped in the tub and rattled his brain causing trouble in perceiving real and fantasy. John would know he was here if he hit him again. Sherlock didn't want to come to that just yet. John was paying attention to him at the moment and he would take what he could get.

"Moran is using you, you know," he informed. John laughed a little, but it was a cold, devoid laugh that was forced and bitter without meaning to be.

"I'm aware, Sherlock. Probably more aware than you would be. We use each other, don't worry. I can safely say I'm winning." John leaned against the back of his chair, now holding his paper with one hand and using the other to irritate the violent bruising on his hips.

"What do you mean by that, John." He was worried. He had every right to be worried about John's every little move. The man was unstable and if he gave a reason for Moran to kill him, Moran would.

"Always taking me for a fool," John snapped bitterly. That didn't mean this conversation was instantly going to go sour. Sherlock would just have to hold it out. "Don't think I haven't figured it out myself. Sebastian's clearly one of Moriarty's men. His top man in more ways than one if I do say so myself. He's so simple. When we fall, he'll soften my landing. We'll fall eventually. Mycroft's getting fed up with me." Alright, so this was going into hysteria. Sherlock couldn't do anything about it and he knew it. John laughed.

"You should tell him for me. Tell him that I would prefer a revolver when he finally gets his balls." John didn't know he was here. It wasn't the first time he had directly instructed Sherlock to do something an illusion would obviously be incapable of doing. Sherlock wasn't sure what he was trying to earn in these attempts, but they often made him feel worse than better.

"I would have felt better about it if he'd have done you that way. At least then I could connect him directly to the crime." John laughed a little more, this time the one that always ended in unstoppable tears. Sometimes he'd laugh until his voice was hoarse and he was crying because he didn't know what else to do. All of this was because he didn't know what else to do. Sherlock swallowed a bubble of bile boiling up in his throat. He'd done this to John.

"Do you know Lestrade is actually attracted to him? God, the meek following the pathetic. That's what we need. They deserve each other. They deserve each other for what they did." He couldn't stand here anymore. He couldn't just sit here and let John destroy himself. John was going to hurt himself, he would maim himself, and he needed to be stopped. Sherlock had never been a particular great judge about what was right and what was wrong, but regardless of whether it was right or wrong, he always landed somewhere near his target. He could say with a fair bit of confidence; this was wrong.

"John," Sherlock drew on quietly, but firmly. John seemed to have tuned him out, however.

"John," he demanded, loudly and forcefully. New action, new reaction. The little blond doctor turned to him immediately, beige eyes wide. His attention was caught but it was likely to end in another breakdown if Sherlock wasn't careful. He had to contort to John's currently ideology and that required some difficult contorting.

"John," Sherlock said again, now with John's attention. He could see his flatmate's mind reeling, doing its best to make sense of this situation and clearly failing. Sherlock approached him slowly and with reason, pressed a thin hand to either side of John's chair and hovered over him just enough. Physical contact was proven to be disorienting.

"I am disappointed in you John" the detective assured him ominously. John brushed his tongue against his lips nervously before pressing them firmly together.

"Stop," Sherlock demanded. Unfortunately, it didn't go as planned. Sherlock hadn't planned much, but stopping was what he was hoping for. John's expression faded swiftly, though.

"Make me," the little murderer hissed back. "Stop me if you're so inclined." Not going at all where Sherlock wanted it to, but it was progress. John was actually conversing with him.

"Why would I _stop_you? Don't be boring. Moran is holding you back, John. He's going to get you caught and when he does, he'll drag you down and shoot you. Get rid of him so you can advance. Good hitmen don't kill for revenge. Moran is too emotional. You want to impress me; you won't do it with him." A bit not good, but it would solve two problems: Sebastian Moran and Sebastian Moran encouraging this ridiculous behavior in John. Beige eyes stared at him and then through him. John was gone again. Still, Sherlock deemed it as progress considering their 'conversation' had lasted longer than usual. John knew he was here. He knew it! It was just obvious that his mind wasn't making that connection.

Sherlock breathed deeply and abandoned John in the livingroom. He'd just have to wait now.

o-o-o

"John turned in Moran," Mycroft murmured though it wasn't quite a happy tone. Sherlock scoffed, doing little to show his brother that he was welcome in the flat. He wasn't and if John showed up conflict would ensure.

"Why are you telling me?" Sherlock insisted, blandly putting the older Holmes off. Mycroft was failing to be very helpful and if he was going to be useless, Sherlock didn't want him around.

"Sherlock Holmes is disappointed."

"Yes. I've heard John was fond of marking his kills."

"No, Sherlock. Not 'would be'. Is. Sherlock Holmes _is_ disappointed. Would you like to tell me what brought on this sudden change. John drugged Moran, heavily I might add, emptied the flat, and cut the sniper's palm wide open just so he could leave his little message. Then he called me to tell me to come and fetch Moran. Why did he change his mind, Sherlock. If he had an arguement with Moran, he obviously has no qualms with killing him. He didn't. And now he's referring to you in present tense. You can not put John through any sudden changes in this mindset, Sherlock. You're putting yourself and John in danger," Mycroft scolded him with a permeating frown. Sherlock brushed him off. He could handle this situation better without Moran pushing John in the wrong direction. He was having enough trouble with Dream Sherlock pushing John away.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're suggesting Mycroft. If John is starting to realize I am real, then I see no reason to view that as a bad thing. Moran is in custody and hopefully John will stop, if not only slow. I suggest you leave now, before he returns," The younger man insisted nonchalantly. John had cleaned out the flat and was likely finding somewhere to store the money he had confiscated. He wouldn't go to a bank, he wasn't stupid, so he would hide it somewhere no one would look. Sherlock had it narrowed down to a few options. The documents, which he was sure was in the hoarded mess, would likely return with him, possibly to burn. Mycroft frowned.

"Don't play with him, Sherlock. He's already broken." Nevertheless, he clearly agreed that it wasn't smart to stick around to speak with John. He paused at the door, however, and plucked his phone from his pocket. A short, one-sided conversation and Mycroft turned to face his brother again.

"John just dropped a collection of the stolen files from the last two years on DI Lestrade's stoop. Let's hope this is a change of tune." The older man sighed irritatedly and left without another sound. Sherlock hurriedly bustled around the flat, finding the daily paper and swiftly tearing the picture out the front. He could turn John around just long enough to make him better. He was understanding, which was fantastic, and it meant John was closer to getting better. Sherlock could still fix this.

He took a red pen and circled the man in the picture. A quick peek into John's calendar and Sherlock mimicked his flatmate's handwriting perfectly. He stuck it to the broken bathroom mirror and returned to his room to play his violin. He would fix John. He had to.

o-o-o

It was ridiculous to let Sherlock continue to dictate his moves even beyond the grave. John knew this, but he also knew Sebastian Moran was an enemy. Moran would kill him, and that wasn't a new thought, but suddenly, John was worried about that. He wasn't entirely sure why, but it was best to get rid of him while he could. He had no desire to wind up on the wrong end of Moran. Furthermore, the ideal way to end this situation would be to kill him, but John wasn't a fool. Not anymore. If Jim Moriarty was still alive, John was going to hit him where it hurt and that required the second most dangerous man in London.

John decided, that wasn't correct anymore. Moriarty was dead and Moran was in custody. Sherlock was right, as he always was, Moran was holding him back with his feelings. He was going to move forward now, without anyone, including Mycroft, holding him back. Moran wanted the ridiculous but John wanted revenge. It felt good to admit it outright. Of course he hated Mycroft, and he hated Lestrade, and everyone who dared to question Sherlock's genius, and he wanted them dead for what they did to Sherlock, and yes, Moran helped him with his goals in the beginning, but now he knew exactly what he wanted.

He quietly returned to his flat with a bag full of useful sources. John unlocked the door with a sudden realization that someone had been there. If they were still here, they wouldn't be for long. He dropped his bag and examined the flat swiftly. There was no one here, sure enough, besides the false Sherlock playing his stupid violin again. John returned to the door and without even the slightest bit of hesitation, began to install a ludicrous amount of stolen locks. He was definitely paranoid, but if internal locks were the only way to keep Mycroft out of his flat, then so be it. He reinforced the opposite side with a couple of hardy latches to prevent the door from being brutally busted down by the Yard.

Sherlock was gone. John looked over the mess that remained stretched over every corner of the flat and not getting any better. Sherlock was gone and even if he came back, there was no need for this things to be strewn all over the place. John really did try, but every time he attempted to throw something out or put it in a box or simply move it about, there Sherlock was insisting that he didn't. It simply wasn't worth the effort nor the strain on the back of his head. He would just work around it, then.

"I can't get out now, John," Sherlock murmured, examining the door. John ignored him. "This seems a little excessive." Excessive? John snorted. This wasn't excessive. He sorted through a few files and folders he had decided was worth keeping and make good work of the mobile he had taken from Moran.

"With you and Moriarty gone, Moran in chains, and the rest of the population not nearly smart enough, it seems Mycroft is lacking an 'Archenemy'. I could pull off the most dangerous man in London, couldn't I Sherlock?" He didn't even have to do anything. With that Moran left behind, clearly from Moriarty, he could pull a few loose webs taunt just enough to make the older Holmes, the only Holmes, panic. John smirked. He'd like to see Mycroft panic.

"That's not who you are, John," Sherlock tried to persuade him as if he thought it would work. John wasn't entirely sure why Sherlock, clearly made up by his own mind, was trying to talk him out of things. His mind was being very inconsistent with him.

"You don't know me anymore," John laughed lightly.

"You're not this."

"I'd kill for you, Sherlock." The little doctor turned in his chair to face the fixating illusion. It was getting easier to focus on him. It was frightening. It was also easy to fall into, almost like having Sherlock back again, even if it wasn't _really_Sherlock. He could never have Sherlock back.

"In fact, I have. And I will again and again until they understand what they did to you. And if they never understand," John laughed into his hand a little, "Then I'll just keep on until it brings you back and if it doesn't bring you back," He pushed his hand from his mouth to his hair, pushing it back with a sudden anxiety, as if he just realized that nothing he could do would ever bring Sherlock back. "Then only death will stop me."

"But John," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I am here."

"I wonder sometimes," John reached for him minutely, but didn't try to touch him. "I just- I wish you would have known-" He choked on his words, tears cutting the pale skin of his face. "That _I_would have known- how much I love you."

This was ridiculous. He was talking to someone that didn't exist. He was driving himself crazy, that was what he was doing. He was making it worse for himself, that was all. John sank in his chair a little more, face held in his hand and the slightest of tremors racking his body. Everything was getting to be too much too fast. He could almost feel breath on his neck, though he knew better than to believe that.

"Then let go, John," the voice murmured to him in the kind of tone that the real Sherlock would have only used when he wanted something. "It doesn't matter if I'm here or not. Let me help you. Stop fighting me."

"I can't-" John swallowed thickly. "I can't. You're not real."

"But I am." Sure enough, this wasn't helping whatsoever. It was making everything a great deal worse, but John had since long stopped humoring the idea that he had some control over it. Even in his mind, Sherlock did whatever he wanted.

"H-help me what?"

"Well, at this rate you're certainly going to get caught. Mycroft already knows, Lestrade clearly has an idea that you're up to something, it's only a matter of time before someone realize what you've been doing and you make enemies in the wrong places," his mind suggested as if it were very simple. That was very Sherlock. John glanced up to him pointedly.

"I've lost my bloody mind."

"Come now, John. We both already knew that," Sherlock quietly admitted to himself that this was _really_ not good. At the same time, however, 'good' was a relative term, wasn't it? They would just have to make some lifestyle changes now and while tedious, he owed it to John. His poor, poor John.

They were wrong, at least, The Yard that is, Sherlock wasn't putting the bodies there; John was.


End file.
